


Abasement

by blind_bombshell



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: BDSM, F/M, Prostitution, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-03
Updated: 2017-03-03
Packaged: 2018-09-28 01:19:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10061456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blind_bombshell/pseuds/blind_bombshell
Summary: Hannibal needs a little something to take the edge off before going to yet another Social Gathering filled with vapid people and their vacuous duels.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theheartbelieves](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theheartbelieves/gifts).



He only has one requirement on evenings like this, with company that’s randomly chosen for a price. It’s not unheard of, or even unexpected, for a man of his stature and caliber to… indulge, shall we say, in ladies whose time can be purchased for a price. He finds it more honest, sometimes, cleaner. One never can be too careful when it comes to rumors and the possibility of blackmail is unsavory, at best.

No, if there’s one requirement he has it’s that they must be petite. Under five foot five, no heels. Preferably blonde though redheads are good - they seem more innocent, somehow, something he doesn't see when he looks at himself in the mirror. Of course, young is also well and good, under thirty-five. Button-cute. Sweet. When he says “sweet” they often make a sort of soft noise of understanding. _Sweet_ has a certain connotation in these circles, after all, and as a descriptor, it never fails him. These other details are extraneous, what he _needs_ is petite and sweet, dressed in something frilly and superfluous that can be easily torn, something that will feel undoubtedly foreign and delicate against his skin.

When he answers the door at the hotel, he almost loses his iron-clad façade. She’s perfect, fitting the descriptor in his mind to a T. Her hair a chin-length strawberry blonde bob, disheveled but in a purposeful way that he respects. She’s in a neatly pintucked heather blouse, the neckline grazed with a ruffle collar giving the tie in front a definite feminine flair. The pencil skirt looks like a dark void, possibly black velvet but he won’t know for sure until he gets his fingers on it. She’s wearing tights, wait – no, he takes a deep breath in, accidentally swallowing down the scent of her (citrus, lilac, white jasmine, _wonderful)_ – she’s wearing garters, which is far more than he expected and it’s infinitely delightful already.

“Please, come in,” he says, crisply, already undoing his cuffs and leaving his jacket by the door. She doesn’t answer, simply strides past him and he takes the opportunity to take another deep inhale of her perfume. She smells simply divine. This is going to be _fun_.

When he turns back, he sees her sitting in the comfortable leather chair by the fireplace, face away as though she’s already dismissed him. Gently, he rolls up his sleeves and sits across from her in the matching chair. He opens his mouth to speak, but before he can get a word out, her foot is next to his head. “These are dreadfully uncomfortable, darling, would you mind?”

He swallows, smirking slightly, “Of course not, my dear.”

He takes great care delicately undoing the ribbons of her shoes. Flats, as requested, but intricately tied of the ballerina sort that seem popular right now. He already knows he’ll be tying them back up, later. He always marvels at the fragile things women get to wear – purely ornamental, superfluous all but for the aesthetic pleasure of others. He pauses after releasing her foot from its tiny prison, mindlessly rubbing his hands across the arch and down her leg for the pure sinuous pleasure of it.

She jerks it out of his grip. “Now the other one.”

He glances up to meet her eyes, smirking, “Of course, my dear.”

She makes him work for it, childishly. He huffs when he’s finally victorious and firmly clasps her foot between his thighs as he works with both hands to undo the ribbons on this leg and she laughs and squirms, firmly brushing her foot against his clothed cock.

“A little early for that, don’t you think?” he says, barely strained.

“Oh, it’s never too early for that, if I don’t plan on letting you finish.”

He smiles, then, as her foot is released and she caresses his face with it. Even here, she smells like powder and white jasmine and citrus. He sighs, placing a tender kiss to the ball of her foot. “Yes. I would like that.”

She grins and moves to stand. He makes to follow, but she shoves him back in place. “I didn’t say you could move.”

He nods indulgently and watches as she unzips the skirt and lets it fall. He didn’t think it would have enough space to, appearing to be painted on as it was, but says nothing. She toes it onto the bed, then lifts her pleated chiffon top up and away, revealing a grey taupe chemise. It’s seemingly crafted entirely out of lace, translucent, and he’s about as hard as he can ever remember being.

She hands him her blouse, “Take that to the closet, put it on a hanger – a good one – then put your pants and socks away, you won’t be needing them. I expect you to be back here, over my knee, in less than three minutes. If you rush, you will be punished more severely than I’ve already planned for you. Understood?”

He nods once, briskly, and she releases him. He’s up and to the closet in four long strides, almost embarrassingly quickly and he takes the moment he hangs up her top to breathe, then dutifully removes his trousers and socks, placing the socks in a drawer and his trousers on another hangar before turning around. She’s procured a paddle from somewhere and is staring at him expectantly and if he wasn’t already hard, that would just about clinch it.

She gestures to the floor in front of her and he kneels obediently. He folds across her lap like it’s a citrus-jasmine-lilac haven, shivering when her fingertips lick at the backs of his thighs and the small of his back, the split of his ass. When he looks up at her from his vulnerable position, he notices for the first time that her eyes are green and her hair is nearly auburn in this light. He quirks a self-satisfied smile right before she delivers the first smack across his backside.

The air fills with the gasps and echoes of sharp breaths as she takes his fill – no words, just sounds. He licks his lips and feels the thrum of his pulse spike with every blow, every soft groan coaxed from his lips. This is his and no one else’s. She pauses momentarily and he almost thinks she’s finished, slightly disappointed, before she takes the waistband of his briefs and snaps them once, twice, three times harshly against the reddened, sensitized skin of his ass before sliding them down to his thighs – he helps by propping his toes against the carpeted floor and thus raising his hips a scant few, very important, inches. The movement, of course, slides his cock against her thighs and he bites his lip in effort, focusing entirely on his hands. Seizing the opportunity, she grabs a fistful of his hair and _pulls_ as she smacks right down on his back thighs and part of his perineum. The combination is so startling, shocking in its voracity, his elbows buckle and he lands hard back on her lap, his cock thrusting helplessly against her now-tightly clasped thighs and effectively trapping his cock inside his underwear and between her legs. He _whines_ and squirms, and she smiles. He knows she does. And he would baulk if he had any dignity in this moment.

She croons nonsense and squeeze-pinches his flushed, exposed cheeks, the telltale marks of the paddle giving the skin the unlikely hue of blush-colored rose petals.

She gives it so well, is so attentive, he just knows he’ll be asking for her again.

A few more firm spanks and he’s spent, he’s dangerously close to orgasm, and she seems to sense it, easing off until she’s just dragging the paddle soothingly across his heated flesh.

He feels damp everywhere by the time they're done and he’s putting her back together. Kneeling to craft her ballet flats and zipping up the skirt, a waft of her arousal reaches him and he can't help but feel a pang of amusement. Her chiffon top is last and he lingers at the hem, the finality feeling too sudden and he’s not ready. She smiles softly, caressing his face with one hand and pulling him down to her level with the other at the back of his neck and placing a gentle kiss to his lips. He tells himself not to feel proud, but the smile filters through, regardless, almost shy. A careful hand paints an invisible line from her nape to the small of her back, then up her skirt and into the garter where he tucks two neat bills under the elastic strap of a garter. The company’s already been paid, of course, this is a gratuity – in every sense of the word. He imagines the green stands out brightly against her creamy skin and the grey taupe of her garters – a bright green spark on a hazy watercolor.

Ten minutes after she’s left, he’s by the hall mirror. Adjusts his tie, checks the lines of his suit pants against his shoes, prepared to conquer the evening and the simpering masses at the gallery opening. He pockets the room key and the pillow mint, slides his jacket on and flicks off the wall sconce before sidling out of the door, and into the hallway.

  
_Fin_

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the lovely theheartbelieves - thank you so much for all your help & inspo, bb <3
> 
> Clothing Inspo (I changed the colors of the items):  
>    
> The Top: http://www.revolve.com/derek-lam-10-crosby-pleated-top-in-bright-coral/dp/10CR-WS80/
> 
> The Chemise: http://www.revolve.com/lagent-by-agent-provocateur-vanesa-slip-in-black/dp/LAGE-WI77/
> 
> Hannibal (not OP which is now private): http://brownberrypie.tumblr.com/post/85528159850/mads-mikkelsen-by-kenneth-willardt-italian


End file.
